Folk-Lore and Legends: North American Indian. Unknown
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reduced to enormous heaps of ashes. It succeeded, however, in cutting the cord with its teeth and freed the sun, but was reduced to a very small size, and has remained so ever since. Men call it the Kug-e-been-gwa-kwa.
THE MAID IN THE BOX
There once lived a woman called Monedo Kway (female spirit or prophetess) on the sand mountains, called The Sleeping Bear of Lake Michigan, who had a daughter as beautiful as she was modest and discreet. Everybody spoke of her beauty, and she was so handsome that her mother feared she would be carried off, so to prevent it she put her in a box, which she pushed into the middle of the lake. The box was tied by a long string to a stake on shore, and every morning the mother pulled the box to land, and, taking her daughter out of it, combed her hair, gave her food, and then putting her again in the box, set her afloat on the lake.
One day it chanced that a handsome young man came to the spot at the moment the girl was being thus attended to by her mother. He was struck with her beauty, and immediately went home and told his love to his uncle, who was a great chief and a powerful magician.
“My nephew,” replied the old man, “go to the mother’s lodge and sit down in a modest manner without saying a word. You need not ask her a question, for whatever you think she will understand, and what she thinks in answer you will understand.”
The young man did as he was bid. He entered the woman’s lodge and sat with his head bent down in a thoughtful manner, without uttering a word. He then thought—
“I wish she would give me her daughter.” Very soon he understood the mother’s thoughts in reply.
“Give you my daughter!” thought she. “You! no, indeed! my daughter shall never marry you!”
The young man went away and reported the result to his uncle.
“Woman without good sense!” exclaimed the old man. “Who is she keeping her daughter for? Does she think she will marry the Mudjikewis (a term indicating the heir or successor to the first in power)? Proud heart! We will try her magic skill, and see whether she can withstand our power.”
He forthwith set himself to work, and in a short time the pride and haughtiness of the mother was made known to all the spirits on that part of the lake, and they met together and resolved to exert their power to humble her. To do this they determined to raise a great storm on the lake. The water began to roar and toss, and the tempest became so severe that the string holding the box broke, and it floated off through the straits down Lake Huron, and struck against the sandy shores at its outlet. The place where it struck was near the lodge of a decayed old magician called Ishkwon Daimeka, or the keeper of the gate of the lakes. He opened the box and let out the beautiful daughter, whom he took into his lodge and made his wife.
When her mother found that her daughter had been carried off by the storm, she raised loud cries and lamented exceedingly. This she continued to do for a long time, and would not be comforted. At last the spirits began to pity her, and determined to raise another storm to bring the daughter back. This was even a greater storm than the first. The water of the lake washed away the ground, and swept on to the lodge of Ishkwon Daimeka, whose wife, when she saw the flood approaching, leaped into the box, and the waves, carrying her off, landed her at the very spot where was her mother’s lodge.
Monedo Kway was overjoyed, but when she opened the box she found her daughter, indeed, but her beauty had almost all departed. However, she loved her still, because she was her daughter, and now thought of the young man who had come to seek her in marriage. She sent a formal message to him, but he had heard of all that had occurred, and his love for the girl had died away.
“I marry your daughter!” replied he. “Your daughter! no, indeed! I shall never marry her!”
The storm that brought the girl back was so strong that it tore away a large part of the shore of the lake and swept off Ishkwon Daimeka’s lodge, the fragments of which, lodging in the straits, formed those beautiful islands which are scattered in the St. Clair and Detroit rivers. As to Ishkwon Daimeka himself, he was drowned, and his bones lie buried under the islands. As he was carried away by the waves on a fragment of his lodge, the old man was heard lamenting his fate in a song.
THE SPIRITS AND THE LOVERS
At the distance of a woman’s walk of a day from the mouth of the river, called by the pale-faces the Whitestone, in the country of the Sioux, in the middle of a large plain, stands a lofty hill or mound. Its wonderful roundness, together with the circumstance of its standing apart from all other hills, like a fir-tree in the midst of a wide prairie, or a man whose friends and kindred have all descended to the dust, has made it known to all the tribes of the West. Whether it was created by the Great Spirit or filled up by the sons of men, whether it was done in the morning of the world, ask not me, for I cannot tell you. Know it is called by all the tribes of the land the Hill of Little People, or the Mountain of Little Spirits. No gifts can induce an Indian to visit it; for why should he incur the anger of the Little People who dwell in it, and, sacrificed upon the fire of their wrath, behold his wife and children no more? In all the marches and counter-marches of the Indians, in all their goings and returnings, in all their wanderings by day or by night to and from lands which lie beyond it, their paths are so ordered that none approaches near enough to disturb the tiny inhabitants of the hill. The memory of the red-man of the forest has preserved but one instance when their privacy was violated, since it was known through the tribes that they wished for no intercourse with mortals. Before that time many Indians were missing each year. No one knew what became of them, but they were gone, and left no trace nor story behind. Valiant warriors filled their quivers with arrows, put new strings to their bows, new shod their moccasins, and sallied out to acquire glory in combat; but there was no wailing in the camp of our foes: their arrows were not felt, their shouts were not heard. Yet they fell not by the hands of our foes, but perished we know not how.
Many seasons ago there lived within the limits of the great council-fire of the Mahas a chief who was renowned for his valour and victories in the field, his wisdom in the council, his dexterity and success in the chase. His name was Mahtoree, or the White Crane. He was celebrated throughout the vast regions of the West, from the Mississippi to the Hills of the Serpent, from the Missouri to the Plains of Bitter Frost, for all those qualities which render an Indian warrior famous and feared.
In one of the war expeditions of the Pawnee Mahas against the Burntwood Tetons, it was the good fortune of the former to overcome and to make many prisoners—men, women, and children. One of the captives, Sakeajah, or the Bird-Girl, a beautiful creature in the morning of life, after being adopted into one of the Mahas families, became the wife of the chief warrior of the nation. Great was the love which the White Crane had for his wife, and it grew yet stronger when she had brought him four sons and a daughter, Tatokah, or the Antelope. She was beautiful. Her skin was fair, her eyes were large and bright as those of the bison-ox, and her hair black, and braided with beads, brushed, as she walked, the dew from the flowers upon the prairies. Her temper was gentle and her voice sweet.
It may not be doubted that the beautiful Tatokah had many lovers; but the heart of the maiden was touched by none of the noble youths who sought her. She bade them all depart as they came; she rejected them all. With the perverseness which is often seen among women, she had placed her affections upon a youth who had distinguished himself by no valiant deeds in war, nor by industry or dexterity in the chase. His name had never reached the surrounding nations. His own nation knew him not, unless as a weak and imbecile man. He was poor in everything which constitutes the riches of Indian life. Who had heard the twanging of Karkapaha’s bow in the retreat of the bear, or who had beheld the war-paint on his cheek or brow? Where were the scalps or the prisoners that betokened his valour or daring? No song of valiant exploits had been heard from his lips, for he had none to boast of—if he had done aught becoming a man, he had done it when none was by. The beautiful Tatokah, who knew and lamented the deficiencies of her lover, strove long to conquer her passion without success. At length, since her father would not agree to her union with her lover, the two agreed to fly together. The night fixed came, and they left the village of the Mahas and the lodge of Mahtoree for the wilderness.
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